Bodies
by CookiesAndStorms
Summary: Their bodies tell stories. One shot (Story is based around Annie and Peeta dying in the Capitol.)


**Not really sure what to class this as- angst in parts, and with a dead Annie and Peeta. Because I don't think either Katniss or Finnick could have fallen in love if they had still been alive. Hope you enjoy this and apologies for any mistakes. Mild smut. **

**Soph xx**

They held stories in their bodies.

His hands are larger than hers, and softer, dotted here and there with tiny freckles that cling to his pale skin as if to adorn it. These hands are the hands which had so eloquently gripped a trident, holding it so tight the pattern imprinted for a while on his hand, and pushed the sharp point through the flesh of an enemy- a scared child little older than himself, tangled tight in a net, trapped like prey. These were the hands which had caressed the skin of the richest women in the capital- the hands that had carefully teased out the most scandalous of gossip from the least willing of sources. These are the hands that knot, and unknot, and knot, and unknot and knot in the dead of night, whilst silent tears fall towards the dusty floor, in the gloomy darkness. These are the hands that close over her hips, that trace the curve of her waist, that dip lower in the darkness, that bring her something she'd never want from anyone else.

Her hands are more delicate, calloused at the thumb where she notches arrows, and wrap around his fingers so easily it scares her sometimes. These are the hands that have twisted in the air as she spins in beautiful silks, in front of a thousand people or more. These are the hands that picked flowers and quietly decorated a body, the body of little girl with hopes and dreams. These are the hands that scratched and notched arrows and destroyed. These are the hands that skim his collarbones, the hands that splay across his back and run fast through his hair to muss the soft bronze she finds there.

His eyes are his one vulnerability, where he fails to mask emotion. They show his good humour, the twinkle that shine like a tiny star brilliant, incandescent white against the soft mossy hum of green. They showed his horror, his heartbreak when Haymitch, with a shaking voice and bottle in hand, announced the tactical failure to retrieve the Capital hostages; the news that Annie Cresta, poor, mad, loved Annie Cresta was dead wiping out that spark of light. She sees in them the slow process of recovery as they tie knots together in a basement. She sees them soften, from hard, cold emeralds to lagoon-green pools when the sea green meets her own ash grey.

Her eyes were always guarded, veiled with deep secrets and responsibility- tainted by death and betrayal long before he met her. Her eyes had watched death- Peeta's screened execution, Prim's body aflame, more tributes than she'd ever want to count. Under the steady, tender love he shows her, the shadows she hides her secrets under are slowly dragged back, turning the ash to shining feather-grey when she smiles.

Lips lead onwards, weaving stories as easily as his fingers weave nets. He tells soft lies to the women who bed him, his voice a traitor to his will; he delivers such shocking scandals in a calm, trusting tone in the propos; his presses his lips to her bare shoulder as she emerges from the shower. Her lips are different. They are unsure and unwilling under studio lights, unable to find the right sequence of words to inspire a rebellion. They flounder in the hospital, the bright lights and the sight of Johanna Mason so broken in the bed, her breath useless in comforting the ally she made in the arena. They are even hesitant under his, unsure of when to yield and how to press forth, but he just laughs, and kisses her harder than she had ever been kissed before.

He has a scar below his right shoulder blade. She notices it, the faint line on his skin, and when she asks he replies that he wanted a reminder- that he was here, that he'd survived. And she takes his hand and drags him out, out of this dingy little house in District 12 they now call home, out into the middle of a rainstorm, and she listens to him breathe, and watches his tears mix with the rain.

Indescribably, the moment seems to stop. The sight of Finnick Odair in the rain burns itself into her brain- the way the green of his eyes is light, shining through the drab grey of the rain that seems to plague District Twelve; the way the drops, like tiny diamonds, beatify his hair so he looks almost like a deity; the way his wet shirt clings to his shoulders, an adoring fan reluctant to stray even a centimetre from his sweet, creamy skin. Finnick looks back at her like she's a goddess, stood in her drab dress in the rain.

She feels alive. The warmth of his emotions, all he feels about her, about this, crackling across her skin like electric, leaving her glowing.

His hands find hers, and he spins her around, humming a tune under his breath for them to dance to. Obliging, she spins, twisting again and again in his easy grip, safe that he will not allow her to fall, will not deny her this childish fancy. Unbidden, laughter bubbles in her throat, and she hears his deep chuckle reverberate in the still air around them, sending ripples over the near deserted Victor's Street. Her foot slips in the muddy pool forming around them, and she lands back in strong arms, head against his chest, his hands supporting her weight, and the world shifts.

He turns, pulling her inside with a determination that makes her breath hitch. They abandoning their filthy shoes and his tugging hand leads her to the rug by the fire, laying her down against the soft wool. Sure, quick fingers touch the buttons on her dress and they fall open, almost desperate to obey his unspoken command. He tugs the blue material away from her, pulling it over her head, running his hands through her wet hair. Arching against him, she pushes defiantly at the thin cloth covering his chest, irrationally jealous of its proximity to his warm skin. This time, she feels his chuckle against her own chest, the vibration making her stomach clench. His shirt lands somewhere near her dress.

The material of the rug brushes the skin of her back as he lowers them, whispering soft endearments as his hands trace over collar bones, push away straps and gently work over her skin. She's caught in his orbit, held in suspension by the beauty of his body, his mind and his heart as he presses into her, breath heavy as it strokes her neck.

She's lost so much, so much to others. She lost Peeta, lost Prim, lost Cinna and Rue and Wiress. She's lost Gale, the irretrievable gulf left in Prim's wake too large to cross. She'd lost her mother again, neither of them able to look at each other now Prim, their precious Prim, was missing. She's lost Madge, her only friend; lost her home, lost her trust, lost her innocence. Nothing, for a while, had seemed solid- there had been nothing real left in the world for her to cling to. But Finnick Odair, who had lost so much himself- Annie, Mags, his dignity- was here, cradling her against him, moaning against her shoulder, pressing one hand firmly against her stomach. There was a space for her to feel safe and loved and happy, when he looked at her with those soft eyes, when he kissed her forehead for no good reason, when his arms wrapped her up tight when she was half-asleep. There was solidity, and safety and love. And maybe, maybe for two people who'd been tried ad broken and haphazardly put back together, that was enough.

The rain drummed on the roof, and a lone mockingjay whistled in the gloom. Neither of them heard.

Gasping, he collapsed beside her, pulling her head onto the warmth of his chest, running his hands again through her hair, slowly drying from the fire's heat.

"Love you, Katniss." The whisper was reverant, and she felt a liquid warmth, a pale gold wave, travel through her body.

"Love you, Finnick Odair." She said, watching the twitch of his lips before his eyes slid shut, warm hands still wrapped around her.

Their bodies held stories. Tales of dark days and lost loves, of grim deeds and helpless, trashed hopes. Forever would the words be burnt on their skins, available to anyone with an analytical eye. There was nothing that could erase the past. But maybe, she thought as her own eyes closed, they could start a new chapter.


End file.
